She turns to face the window, her profile sharp against the darkness. "I understand the stakes, Damiano."
The car slows as we approach the venue, a historic building lit up against the night sky. Red carpet stretches from the curb, flanked by velvet ropes and flashing cameras. Security personnel in black suits stand at attention.
"We're here," I say unnecessarily.
As the driver opens my door, I exit first, buttoning my jacket. I turn and offer my hand to Zoe, helping her from the car. Her fingers are cold against mine, trembling slightly. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Whether she appreciates the gesture or not, I couldn't tell. Her face remains carefully composed, a perfect mask of elegant poise.
I lean close, my lips nearly brushing her ear, catching the scent of her hair. "Remember," I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, "tonight you're madly in love with me. Make them believe it."
As we step onto the red carpet, camera flashes erupt around us. Zoe's fingers tighten around mine, and I pull her closer against my side.
"You look tense," I murmur, my lips barely moving as I maintain my smile. "Relax, lupacchiotta. They can smell fear."
To my surprise, she leans into me, her body softening against mine. A genuine laugh escapes her lips as she tilts her head toward me.
"Is that your version of reassurance?" she whispers back, her breath warm against my ear. "Telling me I smell like prey?"
I can't help the half-smile that forms on my lips. "I'm saying you're doing exactly what they expect."
She slides her hand up my arm. "Better?"
"Much." I place my hand on the small of her back. My fingers trail slightly lower than strictly necessary.
Her eyes flash to mine—a warning there, but also something else. Something that makes my blood run hotter.
We pause for photographers, and she turns into me, placing her palm against my chest. I look down at her with what I intend to be a practiced smile, but when her eyes meet mine, something shifts. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, I forget it's all for show.
"They're eating this up," she says quietly, a secret smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I lean down, brushing my lips against her temple. "Good."
As we make our way inside, I notice thestares—men tracking her movements, women whispering behind their hands. I keep her close, my hand possessive on her waist. She responds perfectly, leaning into my touch, her fingers occasionally brushing mine, sending jolts of electricity through my skin.
We pause at the entrance to the grand ballroom, and I feel her intake of breath at the opulence—crystal chandeliers casting golden light over the assembled elite, marble floors gleaming, champagne flowing freely.
"Impressed?" I ask.
She gives me a sidelong glance, heat in her eyes that seems too genuine for comfort. "Please. I've seen better."
I can't help the laugh that escapes me—real, unplanned. "You're a terrible liar, lupacchiotta."
She turns fully toward me, reaching up to straighten my already perfect bow tie. Her fingers linger at my collar, and the touch burns through me.
"Only when I want to be," she responds, voice low and intimate.
I swallow hard, caught off-guard by how convincing she is. How real this feels.
I pull Zoe closer as we move through the ballroom, navigating between New York's elite. The feel of her silk dress beneath my palm sends heat radiating up my arm.
When we reach a quieter corner, I lean down, my lips almost brushing her ear. "Is your body responding now? Like the other night?"
Her eyes meet mine, emerald fire dancing in their depths. A small, knowing smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
"I never had the chance to tell you," she says, voice barely above a whisper, "that maybe my body wasn't responding for you."
The implication hits me immediately. My fingers tighten reflexively on her waist.
